The War to End All Wars
by Catching Tomorrow
Summary: How did a Serbian assassinating the heir to Austria and Hungary's throne start the most devastating war in history? Causes of World War One, Hetalia style!
1. The Assassination

You know that ridiculously complicated topic you had to write all those essays on for history class? Well, I did some asking around and realised that no-one really understood what led up to World War One. I don't blame them - it's twisted, difficult and, at times, utterly stupid. But I like to think that I kind of understand it a bit, so I did what any sensible and well-adjusted teenager would do at a time like this: I wrote a fanfiction. It's a simplified version, of course, but it has the main facts in there and it's a lot more entertaining than a textbook XD. I also had no idea what genre it was, so sorry about that. But without further ado, please enjoy The War to End All Wars!

Please leave a review if you like it! They really do make my day.

If I owned Hetalia then a) I would draw a comic strip instead of writing a fanfic and b) I would be speaking Japanese. I also don't own World War One... just in case anyone was bothered about that...

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><p>Usually, thought Austria, life gives you a sign when something terrible is about to happen. A black cat crossing your path, a broken mirror, a ladder that you didn't notice was looming ahead until it was too late. Whenever he ran into one of those things, he knew to expect the worst. But there was nothing about that morning that marked it as anything out of the ordinary. It was cool but blue-skied with the sun already starting to warm the streets of Sarajevo. He and Hungary were sitting in the back of an expensive black car, watching the city pass them by as they listened idly to the conversation of their Archduke and his wife in the seats in front of them. No, he decided. There was definitely nothing that morning to suggest what was to come.<p>

That was, until the bomb landed in the Duchess's lap.

That, he thought, is when he should've realised that this wouldn't be an ordinary visit.

The crisis had been averted that time. The Archduke had grabbed the bomb before Austria and Hungary had even realised what it was and hurled it from the car. No-one had been killed and the day was saved. For now. They were all on edge after that; he could feel the tension in Hungary as she sat next to him and the Archduke was brisker and snappier than usual. When Bosnia had welcomed them, he had complained loudly about the bombing attempt. Bosnia had been shocked; he apologised profusely and assured them that it was nothing to do with him. He'd invited them inside and done his best to calm them down while Herzegovina served tea, her face pale and worried.

"I swear, it was nothing to do with us," Bosnia had said, wringing his hands. "Please don't assume that, just because it happened here..."

"We won't," said Austria quickly. "It wasn't your fault. Just make sure it doesn't happen again, okay?"

Bosnia nodded, his shoulders sagging in relief. He knew that he was well under the control of Austria and Hungary; if they took offence to him or Herzegovina, they were in major trouble.

All, seemingly, was well. The Archduke and his wife decided to change their planned schedule and visit the citizens hurt by the bomb meant for them. Leaving Bosnia and Herzegovina behind, they climbed into the car and drove off down the Sarajevo streets towards the hospital.

It was lucky, Austria thought as he watched the city pass by, that the bomb hadn't killed the Archduke. Not so lucky for the citizens it had hit instead, but lucky for the state of world affairs. If the heir apparent to the Austro-Hungarian throne had been killed, who knew what actions he and Hungary would've been forced to take? Austria didn't like the idea of punishing Bosnia and Herzegovina, especially since he was sure they were innocent, but would Hungary share his opinions? Well, there was no use worrying about it now. The crisis had been averted.

"Hey," Hungary whispered in his ear. He jolted from his reverie and turned to listen to her. "Isn't the hospital the other way?"

The driver, it seemed, had realised this as well. Before Austria could speak, he braked and put the car into reverse. And, in one of the more unlucky events that day - and that was saying something - the car stalled.

Since everyone's attention was turned to the driver fighting with his gearstick and accelerator, it was only Austria who noticed the man come out of the bakery at the side of the road. He looked unassuming - normal clothes, average height, not particularly threatening in any way - but there was something about the look in his eyes, the determined way that he walked, that set Austria's internal alarm off. It was particularly sensitive that day thanks to the bombing attempt, but he had a feeling that man would've caught his attention on the best of days.

"Hungary," he said, nudging her as she leant over the seats to watch the driver.

"Not now, Austria."

The man was only fifteen feet away from them now and striding closer. Austria watched, helpless, as the man stopped about five feet away and drew something metallic from his coat pocket.

It all happened so fast he could barely remember it. On instinct, he grabbed Hungary and threw her back against the seat, shielding her with his own body. She screamed, but the noise couldn't mask the distinctive sound of two bullets being fired from a pistol.

At first he thought they'd missed. When the noise died down and Austria looked up from his awkward position sprawled across the seats, nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. Then the differences clicked; the man with the gun was making a run for it, pursued by police. There was screaming - lots of screaming. And two pools of red were slowly growing on the Duchess's dress and the Archduke's collar.

Hungary recovered before he did. She vaulted the back of the seats and crouched in front of the royal couple, eyes wide and face white. "Are you okay?" she asked urgently, shaking them gently. "No. You're not okay. Just hang in there. Just hold on."

"Hospital!" shouted Austria once his voice had started to work again. "Driver, take us to the hospital _now_!"

"It is nothing," said the Archduke quietly. "It is nothing..."

It was not nothing. Austria had seen wounds like that before on the battlefield and they never ended well. A shout from the street caught his attention; one of the police officers had tackled the assassin. He teetered on the edge of a decision for a moment, then made up his mind. "Stay with them," he told Hungary, then jumped out of the car and ran over to the crowd of policemen now surrounding the assassin.

"Who are you?" asked one of the police officers, once the man was safely handcuffed and restrained. "What is your name?"

The man was still breathing hard from running and doubled over what looked like pain - one of the policemen had probably hurt him in the chase. "Princip..." he gasped. "Gavrilo... Princip..."

The name was foreign, and so was his accent. "Where are you from, Princip?" demanded the officer. "Tell me!"

He seemed to be having trouble forcing words out through gulps and pants of fatigue and fear. "...S-Serbia..."

Serbia.

So this was his doing, was it?

Austria turned on his heel and strode away. He'd heard all he needed to. He wove his way through the horrified and excited crowd, heading resolutely towards the hospital. This time he ignored the beautiful Sarajevo scenery; his mind was completely focused on the matter at hand. He should've known they couldn't trust that country. He was a shady one at the best of times, always letting his emotions get in the way of reason. He'd probably felt threatened by their Empire right on his borders and decided to try and weaken them by killing the heir to their throne. But his assassin had been caught and now he knew who was behind this whole thing. Serbia was not going to get away with this.

He found Hungary standing outside the hospital.

"They're dead," she said, her voice flat and her face set.

Austria was not shocked - somehow his mind had said its goodbyes as soon as he'd seen their wounds. He only felt numb as he said, "It was Serbia."

"What? How do you know?"

"The police were interrogating the assassin. He was Serbian."

She balled her fists by her sides as if wishing she had frying pans clutched in them. "We should've known."

They stood there for a while in the shade of the hospital building, allowing their minds time to process this news. Austria's mind was having trouble processing anything, let alone this. It had gone into lockdown mode, as it always did when it couldn't take what was happening, and all that drifted through his head was Chopin's Nocturne. He became vaguely aware of Hungary slipping her hand into his and looked over to see her staring at the street and biting her lip.

"What now?" she asked, as though she thought he might have an answer.

"We go home," he said slowly. He had to say something, didn't he? One of them had to. "We go home and then decide what to do. We'll work something out, but we can't stay here."

She nodded and, hand in hand, they both began to walk towards their car parked outside the hospital. Despite what he'd told Hungary, Austria had no idea what they'd do next. His mind was still numb; any thoughts that raised their head were drowned out by the music.

But, he thought as they climbed into the car and asked the driver to take them home, they would get past this. They'd choose a new successor and take care of Serbia somehow. At the end of the day, it wasn't the biggest crisis they'd ever faced. A couple of political manoeuvres and it'd all be taken care of.

It was strange, he would always think afterwards, how long he believed that.


	2. Planning for the Worst

This chapter is currently sitting in my Doc Manager under the title of 'The War to End All Wars 2'. That made me laugh.

Anyway, it's a good title because that's what it is. Part two. Enjoy!

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><p>Standing beside Austria's piano bench with Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata dancing slowly through her ears, it would've been easy for Hungary to believe that the world was at peace. That everything was alright and everything that wasn't would sort itself out. But that would be a lie, and Hungary always made a point of not lying to herself. Their Archduke had been assassinated only days ago and something had to be done about it. Austria had been reluctant to face the issue; he'd been shut up down here with his piano for most of the time they'd been home and he changed the subject whenever she tried to bring it up. But today, as soon as he finished his sonata, they were going to discuss the matter.<p>

All too quickly, the last notes faded away. Hungary listened to them go, eyes closed, then plonked herself down next to Austria on the bench.

"That was beautiful, darling," she told him. He didn't look at her; his eyes were fixed on the piano. He knew what was coming. "But what are we going to do about Serbia?"

"I really should practise Claire de Lune," he said, making a grab for his music book. "I've been a bit rusty on it lately and I-"

"Austria! You promised!"

He sighed and dropped the book. "Fine. But I don't see why this is such a big issue. You remember that letter Serbia sent us."

She did. It had been a great long document full of apologies, swearing that he and his government had had nothing to do with the assassination and it was all the fault of a secret military organisation called the Black Hand. He begged them to understand this and not to blame him for the murder of their Archduke.

"Do you believe it?" she asked him.

"I think I do. I mean, why would Serbia even do that? He knows we're stronger than him and assassinating our heir apparent doesn't accomplish anything. I might be less inclined to listen if he'd, I don't know, blown up the palace, but this was just an act of terrorism. Nothing more."

"That makes sense," she said. "But what if he just didn't like the fact that we can tell him what to do these days? Maybe he was just trying to make a statement. He never has been the best at thinking things through."

He considered this for a moment. "I suppose that's possible. What do you think we should do?"

She bit her lip and hesitated, then said, "I think we should declare war."

"_What?_" Austria stared at her in horror. "War? Really? Over something like this?"

"They assassinated our Archduke, Austria! I know he was no Maria Theresa, but he was a perfectly good man! And the Duchess was completely innocent. And besides, it's the principle of the thing. Whether it was his fault or not, something has to be done or everyone'll start thinking it's okay to kill off our royal family!"

"I know, dear, but war? Isn't that a bit extreme?" His fingers danced subconsciously over the keyboard in front of them and she just knew he was thinking about how much he'd miss it if war broke out. But there were more important things than war. She liked the piano too, but she liked their country and empire more.

"That's what my prime minister said. But sometimes extremes are necessary. All the Balkans have been unstable lately; yeah, they do what we say, but they don't want to. How long until they start rebelling? How long until they start gunning down our diplomats?"

Austria sighed and took his hands off the keyboard. "There must be better ways to make an example than going to war."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, propaganda? We could relax some of the laws, maybe."

"And give them even more room to riot? Come on, Austria. Think about it. Serbia's not even that strong; we'll knock him over in weeks - minimal casualties - and everyone will realise they can't mess with us. It'll make things more peaceful in the long run!"

"Not necessarily," he pointed out. "Serbia's been hanging around Russia lately, hasn't he? They're pretty close. The only reason Russia didn't support him in that crisis a few years ago was because his army wasn't ready. If we declare war on Serbia there's a chance Russia might declare war on us. We may be strong, but we can't take both of them at once."

"Good point," she said, chewing her lip in thought. "But we aren't alone either, are we? Germany promised to help us in situations like this. We could take Russia with him on our side."

"That's true," admitted Austria.

"And Russia probably won't get involved anyway. He backed down before; what's to say he won't do it again? If we're quick, we might even be able to knock Serbia out before he has a chance to mobilise."

"Yes, but-"

"And then our monarchy will be safe, our empire will be secure and we'll have even more control over the Balkans! What more do you want?"

"Fine!" Austria threw his hands in the air in surrender. "How's this for a compromise? We send Serbia an ultimatum. He has to arrest everyone involved in the assassination plot, get rid of all propaganda and publications that say bad things about us and let our police take part in the assassins' trial. If he complies, we let this whole incident go and forget it ever happened. If not-" he winced, "-we declare war."

"That," said Hungary, "is an excellent idea." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, then drew back and smiled. Austria's ultimatum was perfect; they'd achieve their aims whether Serbia complied or not. She had a good feeling about it. "I'll go and tell the government to start writing it. You call Germany and tell him we're coming over, okay?"

"Okay," said Austria. He let go of her and she stood up, leaving the room in a tulip-scented swish of skirts and hair. He sighed again, stood up and headed over to the telephone. He picked up the receiver and dialled Germany's number.

_Ring... Ring... Ring... _"Hello?"

"Germany. It's Austria. We need your help."

"My help? What have you gotten yourself into now?"

"Nothing yet, but I think we might. I"m just asking for pre-emptive support."

"Why?"

"It's kind of a long story. Basically, we might be declaring war on Serbia."

"Serbia? Why?"

"He killed our Archduke! We're making an example in the Balkans. Don't worry, we'll knock him over in weeks. We probably won't even need you."

"So why are you calling me?"

"Well..." Austria hesitated. "Serbia's been friendly with Russia lately. If we attack him, we're worried Russia might get himself involved."

"Russia? You want me to fight Russia? He has the biggest army in the world, Austria!"

"Your leaders have been itching for war, haven't they? I'm sure they'll latch right onto the idea. And we have an agreement, remember? You have to help us."

Germany sighed audibly down the phone. "You're right, of course. I'll go and tell them now. I hope you know what you're getting us into."

"Of course I do. Hungary and I have discussed it. We're sending him an ultimatum; if he agrees to our terms, nothing happens. If not, we have a quick war that probably won't even involve Russia. We just need to know you're behind us, just in case."

"Okay, fine. I'm behind you."

There was a click on the other end of the line as Germany hung up. Austria put down the receiver and stared around the room, at a loss for what to do. It was a nice room; there were paintings hanging on the walls, expensive rugs and couches with velvet cushions. He and Hungary had done well for themselves since their unification. But the paintings were gifts from Bosnia and Herzegovina, the rug had been taken from Croatia's house and the cushions had been commandeered from the Czech Republic and Slovakia. But, he had to admit, they hadn't done nearly as nice a job with them as he had. Hungary had been all in favour of _sitting _on them, but he had vetoed that idea and placed them in strategic locations that set off the curtains and the rug in a way that was immensely pleasing to the eye.

He had always been proud of his cushions. But now, they seemed pointless somehow. He looked at them with wistfulness instead of pride, like he knew he wouldn't be able to enjoy them for much longer. But that was ridiculous, of course.

Shaking these ominous thoughts from his head, he sat down at his grand piano and began to play.

He might as well make the most of it while he still could.


	3. Invasion

Serbia was sitting in his study, looking over the ultimatum for the hundredth time. He'd fulfilled that clause, and that one, and that one... Hell, he'd even started the process of getting rid of all anti-Austro-Hungarian propaganda. He was shutting down hundreds of publications and reprinting thousands of books for them, and that was only the beginning. Surely that would be enough? He'd done almost everything they'd asked. But he couldn't allow Austro-Hungarian police into his country. He felt his blood boiling at the thought of it and resisted the urge to tear up the document and stomp on it. It was humiliating enough to have to comply the other points without letting their big-headed, jumped-up officers past Serbian borders. He was better than that.

The phone call he'd made to Russia that day swam to the forefront of his mind.

"Russia," he'd pleaded, consciously hating himself for begging. "You've got to help me. I can't comply with this thing. It's stupid and embarrassing and no self-respecting country could even think of accepting it!"

"Ah, I see..." had come Russia's voice down the line. "Well, you have to-" there was a scuffle, a buzz of static and then his voice went faint as he held the receiver away. _"No, you opezdol, the eighteenth brigade flanks from the north! ...What do you mean they're not here?" _Another scuffle, then he was talking directly to Serbia again. "You just have to agree to it, da? You don't want them to declare war on you."

"But I can't! Not without losing every scrap of dignity I still have! Can't you back me up? They might think twice if you're behind me!"

"Um... Not right now," he said, slowly. "I can't fight them for you - _well then MAKE a fifty-seventh regiment, shestiorka! - _so you're on your own for now."

"But you promised! You can't back out on me now!"

"I"m not! If they do declare war, I'll back you up. But it really will be easier to just fulfill the treaty, da?"

"Russia, I can't, it's too-"

"_Tell Urals to increase production or I'll be forced to pay her a visit! I can't have an army without weapons, can I? Now get moving, or I'll-" _The line went dead.

A knock on the door brought Serbia back to reality. He sighed, got to his feet and walked over to his front room, dreading who he might find on his doorstep. The ultimatum expired today. He hadn't fulfilled all the terms. But Austria and Hungary weren't unreasonable - surely he could convince them to relax a little.

He opened the door and his worst fears were confirmed. Austria was standing there, all dressed up in a neat suit. But he didn't have his army. He didn't appear to be armed. Serbia went from resisting the urge to pound the Austrian's head in to trying to suppress his rising hopes. Maybe he really had come to negotiate?

"Come in," he said quickly, standing back from the doorway. _Make a good impression. Show him some Serbian hospitality. _Ignoring the sound of all the other Balkans mentally laughing at him, he took Austria through to the living room and excused himself to go and try to remember where he put his teaset. He found it in the attic; it was a little dusty, not having been used since the fourteenth century, but it worked. He cleaned it out, poured some tea and, as a last thought, put some biscuits on the tray. He paused - were biscuits too informal? - but he had to make the best impression possible if he was going to convince Austria not to go to war.

"I am sure you are aware," said Austria, once they were both sitting down, "that the ultimatum expired today."

Serbia gulped. "I am," he said, "but I hoped we could negotiate."

"Negotiate? On what terms? I believe the document made it quite clear that it was not up for negotiation."

"Well, I've been working non-stop over the past few days to do everything it asked and I almost have!" The words were tumbling out of his mouth now. "I've suppressed all publications that weren't publishing flattering things about you and Hungary. I've arrested everyone involved with the assassination of your Archduke. I've even stopped people from trafficking arms and explosives. What more do you want?"

"We wanted you to fulfill _all _the terms, Serbia. Which you have not done."

"Just give me an extension, Austria. More time. And that bit about me having to let your officers into my country - is that really necessary? I'll do whatever you want. Just don't declare war. Please." If he'd been so desperate to keep his dignity then why was he grovelling like a puppy at Austria's heels? King Dušan the Mighty would never have approved.

"It is entirely necessary." Austria's expression hadn't changed once; it was still sympathetic and kind, which, coupled with the words coming out of his mouth, made Serbia's hair stand on end. "The fact remains that you failed to meet the terms of the ultimatum. I think you know what this means."

"No," said Serbia, desperately searching for words that would convince Austria to go away and leave him alone. "No. You can't. Where's Hungary? Let me speak to her. She'll understand. Is she at your house?"

He was interrupted by an ominous metallic click right behind him. He spun around to see Hungary standing less than two feet away from him, her rifle loaded and pointed at the back of his head. "Actually," she said, "I'm right here." And then she pulled the trigger.

Serbia, operating on instincts that all small, rebellious nations develop over time, managed to hurl himself to one side just in time to feel the bullet whoosh past his face. It smashed a window on the other side of the room as he fell backwards off the arm of the couch. If you asked him about it later, Serbia would tell you that he couldn't exactly remember what happened next. He hadn't been thinking or planning or even working towards a goal other than surviving. Another click - Austria had pulled a gun from his jacket and was aiming it at him. He ran, crouched down and using the coffee table as cover, as bullets ricocheted off the opposite wall.

Kitchen. Get to the kitchen.

He reached the end of the coffee table and threw himself at the door, slamming it shut behind him. He turned the key in the lock and looked around the room. _Weapons. That door won't hold them for long. _He dashed across the kitchen, vaulted the counter and grabbed a knife from the rack just as Austria's foot hit the door and knocked it off its hinges. Serbia ducked behind the counter as a bullet from Hungary's rifle hit the cupboard just above his head. _She must've snuck in the back while Austria distracted me! Damn! They really did come here looking to declare war. _Taking a deep breath, he sprung out from his hiding place and hurled himself at Austria, taking him to the ground. _She can't shoot me without risking him! _They rolled over and over, fighting for the pistol - it shot once, twice, three times, then clicked. Out of ammo. Serbia grinned at Austria and raised the knife just in time for Hungary to knock it from his grip, sending it skidding under the fridge.

Shocked at his own stupidity - he'd forgotten about her for a second time - he leapt off Austria and chased her across the room. She didn't have time to load her rifle again before Austria picked up one of Serbia's small wooden stools and threw it at his head. It missed, of course - _that sissy needs to spend less time at the piano and more at the shooting range -_ but it did manage to trip him up. He fell heavily and rolled across the floor, all the air knocked from his lungs. He was too drunk on adrenaline to register any pain; all he was aware of was Hungary looming over him with her rifle. He kicked out at her knees and she fell, using the hand previously holding the rifle to try to catch herself. Serbia was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the rifle and aiming at her. She threw an arm up to shield herself and his finger tightened on the trigger.

At the last nanosecond, an Austrian fist hit him in the side of the face hard enough to send him sprawling across the kitchen, the rifle flying from his grip and out of the kitchen window. It would have shattered the glass if a stray bullet hadn't already taken care of that. He picked himself up, one side of his face hot and numb, in time to see Austria helping Hungary to her feet. The kitchen was ruined; broken glass and splintered wood was everywhere and his walls and cupboards were full of bullet holes. He expected the living room would be much the same. It looked, noted Serbia, like a warzone.

His eyes flicked to the door. If he could get into the corridor fast enough, he could lose himself in the house and avoid them long enough to find a gun. They were all weaponless now, but he could see Hungary eyeing his frying pan rack from the corner of her eye. _In three... two... one... GO!_

Serbia pushed off from the wall and hurled himself across the kitchen towards the door. Austria and Hungary leapt into action - Austria followed him across the kitchen while Hungary vaulted the counter and grabbed the biggest frying pan he owned. He reached the door with Austria hot on his heels and Hungary not far behind and slammed it behind him, giving him a few crucial seconds. He threw himself into his office, closed the door and locked it. But that's what he'd done to the living room door and it hadn't held them up for long. He picked up his office chair and jammed it under the door handle then pushed his desk up in front of it. Blows began to rain down on the wood, the dull thud of fists, boots and shoulders and the metallic clang of a frying pan. He pushed his filing cabinet and and bookshelf against the door and grabbed his phone from its table.

Ring... ring... Come on, damn it!... Ring... ring...

"Da?"

"Russia!" He had to raise his voice to be heard over the racket at the door. "They're here. They've declared war."

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><p>I had WAY too much fun writing this chapter XD. I acted out the fight scene all around my bedroom to make sure I got it right. Yes, I know, but being weird is more fun, da?<p>

I'm starting to get quite fond of Serbia. I created him specifically for this story but he hasn't had a lot of chance to show off his real personality yet; he wouldn't normally grovel this much, I assure you. Maybe I'll have to include him in some future stories? As a side note, Badass!Austria is awesome. I've always had faith in him.

Once again, please leave a review if you like it! It makes all the little plot bunnies so happy.


	4. Marching on Belgium

"You had no authorisation!" shouted Germany, his face flushed with anger. "You had no right! I'm your _country_! You can't send me to war without asking me first!"

"We called a meeting and discussed the matter," said one of his generals calmly. "You may represent the country, but we represent its military. Besides, you were the one that agreed to this."

"I agreed to back up Austria and Hungary! I did not agree to attack France! I never mentioned, never even _implied_, that I wanted you to march on him! Turn this army around right now before... before I..."

"With all due respect, we cannot simply demobilise now. It's too late."

Germany sighed deeply and ran his fingers through his hair. It was still perfectly slicked back despite this nervous habit, but if this day got any worse it'd be sticking up on end before he was done with it. The day had started out fine. Days like this always did. He woke up, he took a shower, he got dressed in his best uniform and ate breakfast. Then he'd stepped outside to see how his army's preparations were going and saw them in the process of marching off over the horizon. Without even bothering to consult him! He didn't know the reason behind this idiocy, but someone was going to be permanently off the Christmas list. He'd stormed up to his generals and shouted at them until he was hoarse, but they were unrepentant. He was ready to fire all of them and take on the job himself, but that power lay with the Kaiser, not him.

_Calm down. Deep breaths. Just count to ten very slowly..._

"Okay," he said, once he'd managed to suppress the urge to strangle all the officious, warmongering _schweinhunds _standing in front of him with their own bootlaces. "Would any of you mind telling me - please - why you decided to march on France?"

"It's all part of the plan," piped up one of them, looking pleased with himself. "You reviewed and approved it, remember?"

"What? What plan?" He had no memory of any plan. They'd made this plan in that meeting they hadn't invited him to - _mental note: when this is all over, call your own meeting and don't invite them, see how they like it - _and now he was risking a war because of them! They were making this up. He was absolutely one hundred percent sure that he had never made any kind of-

"The Schlieffen Plan, remember?"

Oh. That plan.

"We're just following it, sir, like you told us to. France is allied with Russia. If Russia starts to mobilise, we take out France quickly and swing back to the east to fight the Russians. They've started mobilising, so we're attacking France."

Germany's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. They were right, of course. He remembered the Schlieffen Plan; it had seemed like a great idea at the time. Russia took far longer to mobilise than him or France, so a pre-emptive strike could be made before having to face him at full strength. But now they were actually executing it... it seemed different somehow. It had made perfect sense on paper, when he'd been reading it and imagining a situation with Russia declaring war and having to fight for his homeland, but now?

"But Russia's not even attacking us! He's defending Serbia from Austria and Hungary! We can't invade France over something like that!"

"We certainly can. We've agreed to help Austria and Hungary so that means at least some of Russia's forces will be directed against us. France is Russia's ally, so he'll be attacking us as well. That's a war on two fronts. We're strong, but we might not be able to survive that much. If we take him out early then we can deal with Russia on one front."

That... actually made sense. When you looked at it that way, they were bound to get into a war with France sooner or later. Knocking him out of the game before he could do any serious damage was surely a good idea, right? But still... something about this plan didn't feel right.

"Are you sure?" he asked, feeling a little helpless. His army was on the move whether he liked it or not; he was either behind it or he wasn't. "War? Really?"

"It's the best thing in the long run. Minimal casualties. The war'll be over in weeks. It'll be better for France as well; save us both a long, gruelling campaign."

Germany sighed and stared out at his marching army. They believed in their cause utterly, truly and completely - he could see it in their set faces, their determined eyes. He was supposed to be their country, wasn't he? Their guardian and protector. If he wasn't with them then who would be?

"Fine," he said. "Fine. You've convinced me, alright? Let's just get this over with."

A little while later, Germany found himself realising how much he'd missed marching. There was something about it that gave him pride, that made him even more patriotic and determined than he usually was. It wasn't a long journey, but travelling through the countryside with his army was a nice feeling. As long as he didn't think too much about the destination, he could really enjoy it. His generals reminded him of the specifics of the Schlieffen Plan as they marched; the border he and France shared was too heavily fortified so they were heading for Belgium instead. They didn't even necessarily have to invade her - if he just asked politely to be allowed to move through her land he was sure she could be persuaded.

They found her at her front gate, staring at them with shocked and suspicious eyes. She was wearing her military uniform instead of her casual clothes. A lot of countries had started doing that lately. War was in the air; even those who thought they wouldn't be involved could feel it.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked as soon as he was in earshot.

"Good morning to you too."

"Your entire army? Really?" Her eyes narrowed suddenly. "This isn't an invasion, is it?"

"Of course not!" He took a step forward, trying to look as friendly as he could. It didn't come naturally to him. He thought about attempting a warm smile, but that was just as likely to backfire and scare the hell out of her than it was to soften her up. "We're just... on our way to visit France's house."

"So it is an invasion, then."

He sighed; she always had been a sharp one. "Kind of. A bit. Maybe. Okay, yes. It is. But it's France we're after, not you. You don't need to be involved at all unless you get in our way. I promise we'll leave you out of this if you just step aside and let us pass."

"I'm neutral," she said, folding her arms and raising her chin in defiance, "and I intend to stay that way. Use your own border."

"But he'll be _expecting _that, won't he?" Germany was getting a bit impatient now - he'd never been good at persuasion. All she needed to do was stand aside and this could all be over and done with. "Just let us through, Belgium. Come on. We won't raze or pillage or anything, I swear."

She stepped in front of her gate and stood firm, blocking the way. "No! You think you can just show up here with all your little soldiers in tow and expect everyone to do whatever you want? Either use your own border or stay at home and learn some manners!"

"I won't ask you again. I don't want to invade but I will if you force me. Last chance: let us through or we'll come on our own terms, and I can't promise that'll be pretty."

He stared her straight in the eyes, trying to intimidate her into backing down, but she stared straight back without dropping her gaze. He had to hand it to her, she was a plucky little nation. At least a foot smaller than him with much less land and a much smaller army, but here she was, refusing to give in. He almost regretted what he would have to do to her if she kept standing in his way.

"I am a country, not a road, dikke nek!"

Germany sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He was not going to enjoy this.

He stepped forwards and, before she could do anything but gape at him, lifted her up and hoisted her over his shoulder. But Belgium was not going down without a fight. She kicked out and caught him right in the stomach with her boot. He doubled over, winded, and she struggled free from his grasp. The sound of loading guns rang out from behind him; he raised an arm to tell him to hold their fire and left himself open for another punch, this time to the face.

This was ridiculous. She was tiny compared to him; she really didn't have a chance. He swallowed the pain and straightened up just in time to catch a kick she was aiming at his gut. She gave an indignant shriek as he twisted it, knocking her off balance and sending her crashing to the floor. Without missing a beat, he dropped to the ground and pinned her in position. She struggled hard, kicking and thrashing like her life depended on it, but he was far stronger than her.

Within minutes, Belgium was bound securely at the wrists, arms and ankles. She could move no better than a beached whale and clearly did not appreciate it. She screamed insults at them as they tied her up - Germany had put his foot down when a general had suggested just shooting her and being done with it - alternating between French and Dutch, her face red from shouting. He couldn't understand either of them but he thought he could make a pretty good guess as to their meanings.

"Gag her," he said to one of his generals. "She'll attract the attention of everyone in Europe making a racket like that."

And so they marched through Belgium's house, kicking down the front and back doors and funnelling the entire army through the hallway, while she lay in the bushes and watched helplessly. If looks could kill, Germany thought, his entire empire would've been burned to the ground in moments by her eyes alone.

Next stop, France.

* * *

><p>The first chapter that didn't include Austria and Hungary; it's Germany and Belgium's turn in the limelight now. Please leave a review if you liked it, disliked it or just have something to say! ^_^<p>

EDIT: Thank you to an anonymous reviewer for pointing out my slip-up. Russia wasn't Soviet until 1917, i.e. after the beginning of the war. Sorry about that!


	5. Calling the Colonies

I've worked it out, and this story should be six chapters long when it's finished. So this is the second-last one, guys. The penultimate part. It's also, incidentally, my favourite! I do love the British Empire...

* * *

><p>Britain stuck his hands in his coat pockets and frowned to himself as he walked. This was not going well. Austria and Hungary had blatantly ignored the letter he'd sent them recommending everyone calm down a bit and declared war on Serbia anyway. It was like they didn't even care about the balance of power in Europe! This was an outrage. An outrage he couldn't do anything about without getting caught up in it himself, but an outrage all the same. And he really couldn't get caught up in it; he wasn't going to war over some little Balkan dispute. He was just watching. That's all he was going to be, he promised himself. Just a spectator. An outraged spectator.<p>

It was because of this outrage that he was going to see Belgium. He needed someone to blow off steam to, someone who would nod and fervently agree that everyone needed a good slap, and he was damned if he was going to pay a voluntary visit to that French tosser. So he arrived at Belgium's house all ready to rant, climbed the steps to the front door, and stopped.

The door was hanging off its hinges. Kicked in. Looking through, he could see that something had been rampaging through her house. He didn't go inside, of course - that would be terrible manners - but he could see furniture knocked over, scuff marks on the walls and muddy bootprints all through the corridors. Something terrible had happened here.

Not sure what to do, he rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. Maybe she was out somewhere? She probably just wasn't home right now. But... Britain bit his lip. He had a bad feeling about this.

"Belgium?" He leant around the remnants of the door to call into the house. "Belgium, are you there?"

"Mmmm!"

He jumped and spun around. There was a kind of muffled shout coming from somewhere in the garden.

"Belgium?"

The noise led him straight to the bushes by the front gate. _What the bloody hell is going on? _The sound was louder now; he was right near the source. He peered around the bushes and almost fell over in surprise.

Belgium was on the ground, bound and gagged and looking thoroughly roughed up. Her hair was tangled, its ribbon hanging loose, and her uniform was dirty from lying in the mud. Her eyes were wide as she looked at him, full of anger, fear and annoyance that he hadn't got here earlier. Thankfully, she didn't look hurt. Shaken and bruised, but nothing she couldn't recover from. He stared at her in shock then, coming to his senses, dropped to his knees and started untying the ropes.

When Belgium was free, Britain helped her to her feet and she brushed the worst of the mud off her uniform, her face red with fury. "Germany," she said, raking her fingers through her tangled hair and retying her ribbon, "is the most violent, barbaric, disgusting brute on the planet."

"What happened to you?" asked Britain, still reeling from this discovery. What the hell had he done to her?

Belgium looked him straight in the eye, arms folded. She'd recovered from her ordeal surprisingly quickly and now looked ready to shoot someone between the eyes. Most likely Germany. "He just showed up at my front gate, his entire army behind him - his entire army! - and asked to pass through my house. I said no, of course - what was I supposed to do? I have _some _self-respect, thank you very much! - and he didn't like that. He didn't like that at all. So instead of just going round or something, he decided to push me out of the way. I fought him, of course - got a few good kicks in, too - but he had his entire army, Britain! He just tied me up and left me there in the dirt!"

"That's horrible!" He was truly shocked; who did Germany think he was? "Didn't you tell him you were neutral?"

"'Course I did. Didn't count for anything, though. He didn't even care!"

There was a short silence as they both thought about this, neither of them wanting to be the first to say what they knew had to be said.

"You know what this means, don't you?" said Belgium finally.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I do. I guaranteed your neutrality, didn't I? He broke it, so now I have to break him. This means war."

She threw her arms around him in a tight, unexpected hug. Britain hesitated, then patted her on the back a few times. He'd never been much of a hugger. When she drew back, the gratitude in her eyes was replaced with fire. "I'm not letting this go," she said, her hands making fists at her sides. "He's on his way to France's house; I'm following behind and making his life hell. What are you going to do?"

"Well..." he considered this for a moment. "I suppose I'm calling in the colonies."

* * *

><p>"We gather here today in a time of international emergency," announced Britain, standing at the head of the table with a teacup in one hand and the other spread wide in a dramatic gesture. "You may not be aware of it, but Germany has become a threat to the peace of the world and must be eliminated. I ask you, my faithful dominions, to help me accomplish this goal."<p>

A hand hit the air at the end of the table.

"Yes, South Africa?"

"What did Germany do? Did he march on you?"

"No, he didn't march on me, I'm an island. You can't march on an island."

"So he sailed on you?"

"No, he didn't sail on me."

The countries seated at the table exchanged a confused look.

"So what did he do, then?" asked India.

"He committed an act of unspeakable evil," said Britain darkly. "He abandoned all humanity and shook the world to its core." Everyone listened with baited breath, leaning forward in their eagerness to hear what Germany had done. "He… marched through Belgium!" Britain threw his arms wide to emphasise the horror of this situation and spilt his tea all over the tablecloth.

For a while, nothing could be heard except the quiet dripping of tea as everyone waited for the rest of the story. "And then what?" asked New Zealand.

"What do you mean, 'and then what'? She refused to let him through but he went anyway! This act of unchecked aggression and violence cannot go unpunished!"

There was a quiet shuffle from the end of the table as Australia leaned over to whisper to New Zealand, who shrugged and made an 'I don't know' face.

"What?" asked Britain. He was a little annoyed, to tell the truth. He went to all this trouble to call them here and arrange a dinner party and all they could do was ruin the drama of his announcement. In his imagination they'd all rallied to his cause, jumping to their feet and banging their cutlery on the table in protest of Germany's unadulterated barbarism, promising him thousands of soldiers to aid his cause. The Flying Mint Bunny would never have let him down like this.

"Well…" Australia looked a little uncomfortable. "What's a Belgium?"

If Britain was still drinking his tea, he'd have done a spit-take all over the already sodden tablecloth. "You don't know who Belgium is?"

"Not really," admitted Australia. "To tell you the truth, mate, I'm a little fuzzy on European geography in general."

Britain sighed deeply. He could feel a headache coming on. _Just explain it to them simply. They'll be fine once they understand what's going on. _"Belgium," he said, "is a small country just west of me, across the Channel. North of France. You know her?"

"I do," said a little voice at the back, but no-one noticed it.

"No-one? Really?"

"I know her…"

"Okay, I understand. None of you are anywhere near her and she's very small, so I suppose I can see how you wouldn't know her all that well. But she's a good country and she refused to let Germany march through her land, and he should've honoured her wishes. But he didn't; he just took his army right on through like some kind of savage!"

"Why?" asked New Zealand. "Why would Germany want to invade her if she's so small?"

"He wasn't _invading_, as such," Britain explained. "He just wanted to pass through."

"Why?"

"To get to France, of course!"

"But why did he want to get to France?" asked South Africa.

"Because Russia's mobilising his army!"

There was another silence which stretched on, long and confused, until Australia broke it. "So…?"

Britain opened his mouth, realised he had nothing to say and closed it, then opened it again in defiance. "That's not the point! The point is that Germany needs to be punished for his cruel and barbaric treatment of Belgium!"

"Isn't that Belgium's problem?" asked India.

"No! It's the world's problem! When someone is unjustly attacked it is our responsibility as fellow countries of the world to stand and fight on their behalf! And besides," - Britain smiled; this was his trump card - "I have a treaty with her. I guaranteed her neutrality. I _have _to defend her, and you, as my Empire, are honour-bound to help me deliver justice and make the world a better and more peaceful place."

This was met with a blank stare.

He sighed. "You might get to see France fall over in the mud."

"To the war effort!" shouted Australia, leaping to his feet and raising his glass.

"To the war effort!" echoed the others.

Britain smiled, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. His colonies were behind him. He knew they would be; they were obligated to come to his aid in times like this and besides, it was in their best interests to stay on his good side. He'd been a little worried about India's cooperation - she hadn't exactly been on good terms with him recently - but he was glad she was on board. Australia and New Zealand were a long way away, but they were young, enthusiastic and desperate for a chance to prove themselves. South Africa would be a useful ally against Germany's African colonies. And… he frowned and counted on his fingers. He was missing one. A maple leaf briefly fluttered in his mind's peripheral vision, but the moment he turned his thoughts towards it, it was gone. Oh well.

Coming back to reality, he beamed around at his assembled Empire and ordered extra dessert for the table. They were talking and laughing, and all the confusion and hesitance that had been in the air before was long gone.

"I'm telling you, mate, I can't wait," Australia was telling an equally enthusiastic New Zealand. "It'll be the best adventure ever! Hey Britain!" he called down to the end of the table. "I'll send thirty-thousand troops straight off!"

"I'll send forty thousand!" countered New Zealand.

"Fifty thousand and then sixteen thousand more every month!"

Britain grinned at them and was about to say something before India caught his attention.

"If I send you, oh, I don't know, a couple of hundred thousand," she said, throwing a 'take that' glance down the table to the Oceanics, "would that possibly speed up that independence I've been asking you about?"

"Sure," he shrugged. "Why not?" _I'll think about it, anyway._

"Excellent," she smiled. "I'll remember that."

Dessert arrived; bowls of strawberries and cream, trifles, ice-cream towers topped with fruit, sticky date pudding and a three-tiered chocolate mud cake. As everyone tucked in, Britain felt a sense of peace descend over him. It was ironic, considering they'd all just decided to declare war, but it was there. He was honouring his treaty to Belgium, he was doing his bit for Europe and he had all his colonies behind him.

What could possibly go wrong?


	6. So It Begins

Britain stood in the harbour, feeling the sea breeze in his face and smelling the salty air. He'd always felt most at home by the sea; that was what came with being a small maritime island nation. Around him men ran left and right, shouting orders to each other and carrying crates of supplies. One of the ships sounded its horn loudly and its chimney began to issue puffs of black smoke. He was proud of his navy and always had been; it was the largest in the world, after all. If this was a naval battle he'd have won by the end of the year. But at the moment all these ships were doing was transporting his soldiers across the channel.

"Britain." One of the sailors ran up to him and saluted. "Everyone is on board. We're ready to leave."

"Excellent," he said, starting down the docks towards the closest ship. There was no way they were going without him. He was saving that French bastard's arse whether he liked it or not.

* * *

><p>France sat in a deck chair under a nice shady tree, enjoying a glass of red wine. It was important, he had always believed, not to let hard times get in the way of enjoying small comforts such as these. Germany could take Alsace-Lorraine, he could even take Paris, but he could never take his killer sense of style. He took a strange kind of comfort in that.<p>

The nice shady tree happened to be located right near the border where France's land met Germany's. That was not a coincidence, and neither was the fact that most of his army was with him. They were waiting for news of Germany's army sweeping through Belgium. Why were they not on Belgium's border, then? Because France had a score to settle. Germany thought he could just march in here and take Alsace-Lorraine? Well, he was going to show him what happened to countries who took land that didn't belong to them. Every German soldier in Belgium to the west meant one less soldier here on the defensive.

France held his glass up to the sun and admired the liquid inside. Red. A deep, bloody red. He had a feeling he'd be well used to that colour before long. After all, this wasn't a war. This was revenge.

* * *

><p>Germany was not enjoying marching quite so much any more. He had that heavy, clawing feeling, the kind that you get when you know that something isn't right. His generals had assured him that he was doing the right thing, but he still didn't like what he'd done to Belgium. She hadn't struck first - she'd only tried to protect her land. Leaving an innocent girl immobilised in her garden and destroying her house didn't feel like very good karma.<p>

He pushed those thoughts away. They were approaching France's house now and he had to have his head in the game. Whether this was a good idea or not, he didn't stand a chance of winning if he wasn't a hundred percent sure of himself. France was known for surrendering and running away, but the war he and Prussia had fought against him a few years ago - the one that had made Alsace-Lorraine part of their territory - had proved that he wasn't a complete pushover.

Austria and Hungary had better be grateful.

* * *

><p>"Hey hey hey! What the hell are you guys doing here? You can't just go barging through here without the permission of the awesome me, you know."<p>

Russia looked down at the indignant albino and smiled. Here he was, right at Germany's front gate with his million-strong army, and little Prussia thought he could reroute him? He felt like laughing, so he indulged himself in a little giggle. Prussia's glory days were long gone. He'd had a great country of his own once, but now he was just Germany's underling. It was a bit sad, really. "I think I can, da?"

"Nuh-uh! Germany left me in charge here and I say you can't. So there."

Russia surveyed him for a moment, his head cocked to one side. Then he turned to his generals and gave the order.

* * *

><p>Canada sat on the deck of a military transport vessel cruising across the North Atlantic. The wind was whipping his hair back, ruffling Kumajiro's fur and making them both pretty cold, but he wasn't thinking about that. He was too busy trying to identify a feeling that had been rising in his chest ever since he'd declared war. It was... hot. Yes, definitely hot. Like some kind of fire or explosion. They were quite good comparisons actually; they were intense and determined, just like this strange feeling. It was brave as well, like he could storm the enemy with nothing more than a hockey stick and come out the victor.<p>

He looked out at the rest of the convoy. Each boat held crowds of his own trained and equipped soldiers and each soldier was ready to fight to the death for him. And, he realised, he was ready to fight with them. With that realisation, he was finally able to put a name to that feeling.

"Kumajiro," he said, "I think I'm feeling badass."

The little bear looked up at him in confusion. "Who are you?"

He smiled. "I'm _Canada_."

* * *

><p>South Africa leant on his rifle, waiting as his troops ran to catch up. Some of them were fanning themselves with their hats, but he was used to the heat. He had received his orders from Britain yesterday - he was to defeat German East Africa. That was the name that he had given the country that South Africa knew as Namibia. Ever since Germany had showed up on their shores a few years ago, he had been making friends and forming alliances with a lot of the countries there. Burundi and Rwanda were both devoted to him and even Cameroon let him govern affairs in his country. But South Africa was British, and they were German.<p>

"Do you see Namibia?" asked one of his soldiers.

"Not yet," he said. "But we're getting close to his house. Come on."

And he was moving again, to Namibia's land. To war.

* * *

><p>Australia liked parades. His whole country had been having them, all the young men that had raced to sign up dressed in their uniforms and marching down the street to the cheers of enthusiastic citizens. He'd even had to turn away potential recruits; there were just too many trying to join his army. He watched them reach the docks and file onto the boats, still waving to loved ones and grinning as they looked forward to their great adventure.<p>

"You got everything?" asked New Zealand. "It's a long way to Turkey." He and Australia, deciding that they would be stronger together than on their own, had combined their armed forces to form the ANZACS - Australia and New Zealand Army Corps.

"Yep, it's all on there," said Australia, surveying the boats all lined up in his harbour. It was a long way to Turkey, but there, in a bay called Gallipoli, was where he and New Zealand were going to make a name for themselves. "You know, mate, I have a good feeling about this. I reckon Gallipoli's gonna be a fight to remember."

* * *

><p>India stood at the helm of her troops, the harsh midday sun beating down on her. Her usual sari had been replaced with a military uniform and the dark hair that usually fell about her shoulders had been swept up into a neat, efficient bun. The soldiers lined up in front of her, standing to salute, were all well equipped, neatly turned out and ready for war. Ready to fight for her and alongside her.<p>

When Britain had called his conference, India had attended only because she had to. They hadn't exactly been best friends over the past few years. She wasn't like Australia and New Zealand, desperate to prove themselves and make their Empire proud; all she wanted was a chance to get out and make her own way in the world. She saw the same desire reflected in the eyes of the army standing before her and couldn't help but feel a blaze of pride for them hotter than any Indian sun. They deserved their independence. That was what they were truly fighting for.

* * *

><p>"Austria?"<p>

He turned; Hungary was crouched beside him, her green uniform muddy from the trench digging. They had withdrawn from Serbia's house a few hours ago and dug in around his garden; apparently it would be safer and more effective to attack from there. She had abandoned her frying pan when their army had arrived with supplies of more conventional weapons and now held her new rifle as elegantly as she would a broomstick or parasol, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that she could and would use it as well as any soldier. Her eyes were full of their usual fire, but there was a question in them as well.

"Yes?"

"Are you sure we did the right thing?"

He looked at her in silence for a moment, still leaning on his spade. Then he picked himself back up, threw the spade to one side and grabbed his rifle.

"Just load your gun, Hungary."

* * *

><p>And there it is! The War to End All Wars, a Hetalia-style account of the events leading up to World War One. I actually really enjoyed writing this; I'm a bit sad to see it go... If you liked it, hated it or just have something to say, please leave a review! It makes me so happy to know that people read what I write.<p> 


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